


i hadn't time to regret you

by blindmadness



Category: Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, boy does the canon diverge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: Phillip is no stranger to wanting Colin, but this time it's different. (AKA the Regency romance sex pollen that no one even remotely needed, but fuck it, it's 2020.)
Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Phillip Crane
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	i hadn't time to regret you

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: y'all, I cannot believe that I am coming to the fandom of my heart with the first thing I've written for it in two years and this is what I offer to you. I HAVE NO EXCUSES. I PROMISE I WILL PRODUCE MORE CONVENTIONAL, LESS INEXPLICABLE CONTENT FOR EVERYONE SOON. (Though bless the TV show for bringing us more unapologetically id-y content! This would have been a lot more out of place a week ago!)
> 
> So: some explanations are in order here. As you may know, I wrote [this Penelope/Eloise fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000283) for Yuletide some years back, and it was a delight and joy to produce and made me wonder why I hadn't queered the Bridgertons way sooner. So I started thinking, as one does -- why not Colin/Phillip as a corollary? If Penelope loves a lot of the same things about Eloise and Colin, surely it stands to reason Phillip would feel the same way?
> 
> So I loosely planned the whole thing out (as evidenced [here](https://i.imgur.com/Qidg71m.png) in brief): imagine Colin, already at loose ends in canon but even more so now that the Whistledown drama has settled down and Penelope and Eloise are in love, finding Eloise's letters to Phillip (because she would have still been writing to him and considering his offer), and deciding, impulsively, to have an adventure in the country. Imagine Phillip -- reclusive country gay, having proposed to Eloise primarily as a marriage of convenience -- being confronted with Colin Bridgerton in all of his Colin-ness, having absolutely no idea what to do with or about him. Imagine Colin hanging out at Romney Hall like he owns the place and charming the heck out of Oliver and Amanda as Phillip uselessly and panickedly pines for him (and Benedict occasionally drops in to give Colin lots of meaningful Bro... Bro, Come On. Come On, Bro looks). IT'S GREAT, IS WHAT I'M SAYING, ISN'T IT?? I had every intention of actually essentially rewriting _To Sir Phillip, With Love_ with this premise sometime or another, because I loved it so much.
> 
> ... and then shortly after, I had a burst of desire to write some sex pollen and asked for prompts, and a friend requested Colin/Phillip from this AU, and ... I wrote this. Actually, I wrote about 95% of this, and then left it unfinished for the past three and a half years or so! Because that's what I do, apparently!
> 
> I was pretty sure I'd never actually share this until the actual AU fic was written, and I figured that would take me about a hundred years, so I kind of set this entire premise in a drawer for Thinking About In The Future. But now fandom is in full swing thanks to the show, and I am a competitive bastard who wanted to post the fandom's first m/m in addition to its first f/f, so... I dusted this off and finally gave it a conclusion, and here we are. (I DEEPLY regret that I didn't quite make the first m/m cut, ha, but -- it's still the first book-canon-exclusive m/m?? Does that count for anything??) I'm so sorry that instead of any kind of nuanced or even reasonable story, it's just thousands of words of unrealistically-premised pure filth with some feelings thrown in at the end. But I figure I've inaugurated enough tropes into this fandom (the college AU, the soulmate AU, the next-gen fic)... why not sex pollen as well...? Look, it's the last day of 2020. We're gonna send this shit year off in true "this might as well happen" style. :")
> 
> Anyway, for better or worse, here's my monster. Title comes from "Life on a Chain" by Pete Yorn (which is also where I got the title for [the Phillip/Eloise college AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520485)), because I titled the Penelope/Eloise after a _Romancing Mister Bridgerton_ soundtrack song, so this one gets a _To Sir Phillip, With Love_ one. (Also the lyric "and you share the same last name" in a song for a fic in which I'm swapping siblings as love interests made me laugh.) My deepest thanks to [crepesculum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crepesculum) for prompting this to begin with, to everyone who has eyes-emoji'd any discussion of this on my social media over the past three years and displayed frankly inexplicable enthusiasm for me finally resurrecting and sharing it, and to this entire fandom for being delightful and inspirational. ♥
> 
> (And, again, I am so very sorry. You're going to get less absurd content from me soon, I swear.)

Even after working out in the sun during the hottest part of the day, well past the point of exhaustion, Phillip doesn't think he should feel this hot.

He's taken the time to change into clean clothing on the off chance that Colin was waiting to have supper with him, but even the cold water he’d hastily splashed on his face and chest hasn’t done much to help. And he's dressed casually enough—no cravat, the top buttons of his shirt left open—that he shouldn’t feel this _constricted_ by the simple clothing, like he’s standing in front of an oven, like he wants to burst from his skin. 

Maybe he’s ill. It would be just his luck, he thinks grumpily, descending the stairs to the dining room, to fall bedridden and miss whatever remaining time he has with Colin.

An image of Colin at his bedside, in considerably less clothing than he would likely be wearing, nursing him back to health, flashes through Phillip’s mind, bringing with it another rush of heat, so strong he feels his stride falter.

What is _wrong_ with him? Colin’s been here for two weeks, and he’s spent the entire time in a quiet agony of unfulfilled desire; the state shouldn’t be anything new. Why does it suddenly seem wholly unbearable?

Seeing Colin at the supper table, waiting for him, smiling as he looks up to meet Phillip’s eyes, makes the whole thing a thousand times worse. Heat rushes through Phillip, and it’s all he can do to return the smile, however weakly, before he sits down. 

Colin, being too observant for Phillip’s own good, immediately frowns, leaning over the table. “What is it? You don’t look well at all.” 

Trust him not to mince words. “I’m fine,” he manages, not meeting Colin’s eyes. “I was working a little too long.” The entire purpose of which, of course, had been to distract himself from Colin as much as he could. Unfortunate, how spectacularly it seems to have backfired. 

Colin clucks his tongue in chiding, and Phillip doesn’t have to look at him to know the mischievous expression crossing his features. “Very rude,” he says brightly, “to spend so much time out of doors when entertaining a guest. Surely your fields can wait?”

“Spoken like a true town gentleman,” Phillip mutters, and immediately regrets the sharpness of the words. It isn’t Colin’s fault—not his current strange mood, not his total inability to control himself. Hell, he should be thanking the Lord on bended knee at all hours of the day that Colin hasn’t figured it out yet.

Colin, though, being Colin, just laughs. “I suppose I do rather expect the world to revolve around me,” and again, even without looking, Phillip can map the precise contours of the brilliant smile on his face. “It’s been quite refreshing, that not being the case here.”

Fortunately Colin can’t read Phillip’s mind, otherwise he would never make such a ridiculous claim—he’d be all too aware of just how many of Phillip’s thoughts _do_ revolve around him. And in situations that seem highly unlikely, too—Colin pinning Phillip down in the middle of one of his fields, far from anyone’s gaze but still exposed to the sun and the wind; Colin coming to him in the middle of the day, using clever words and cleverer fingers to distract him from his work; Colin waking Phillip in the morning with a kiss, then moving his mouth lower and lower until—

Phillip closes his eyes as tightly as he can, barely managing to suppress a groan. He’s feeling too hot again; he can feel the sweat pooling at his collar and his hairline, an itch building under his skin, discomfort making him want to strip off even this most casual of clothing. What in God’s name is the matter with him? 

“Crane,” Colin says after a moment, sounding more genuinely worried now. Phillip keeps his eyes closed; he doesn’t need to see concern, for him, on Colin’s face—not when his imagination is already this close to fully running away with him. “I trust you won’t take it as a critique of your beautifully turned fashion if I tell you that you’re looking terrible. Did you have a mishap of some kind in the field? Are you hurt?”

If there’s any kind of pain, Phillip thinks grimly, it’s concentrated in one particular place that he is absolutely not going to tell Colin about. “Found some strange plant,” he says after a moment, barely managing to bite the words out. “Breathed it in—possibly having a bad reaction of some kind.” 

There’s a scraping sound—Colin’s chair as he moves to get up— _no, no,_ Phillip finds himself thinking in a wild panic as he hears Colin’s steps approaching, and he can’t hide a flinch as he feels Colin’s hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up,” he exclaims, still sounding worried. “And you look as if you’re about to be ill. Maybe you shouldn’t be eating—should I send for some tea? Some water?” 

It’s something about the combination of helplessness and concern in Colin’s voice that disarms Phillip, and he opens his eyes and tries to say that no, it’s all right, he’s going to be fine, but as he catches sight of Colin’s face so close to his, the words stutter to a halt in his throat.

He’s just so _near,_ and his face is so perfectly, heartbreakingly handsome. Phillip can’t stop himself from drinking it in—the perfect cheekbones, the ever-so-slightly unruly hair, the patch of skin at the base of his throat where he, too, has foregone a cravat—and, of course, his eyes, so purely, beautifully green it actually pains Phillip. Those eyes have been haunting his dreams for the last two weeks, and he’s sure they’ll remain there for the years to come, after Colin goes home and leaves Phillip alone again.

He knows that he should say something, make _any_ sort of response other than simply sitting and staring into Colin’s eyes like an utter fool, but the sudden urge to pull him close and kiss him is overwhelming, and it’s taking all of Phillip’s energy to resist it.

As the silence between them stretches on, Colin’s expression shifts to something closer to alarm than concern, and— _no, please, no_ —he moves a little closer, frowning as he peers into Phillip’s face. “Crane,” he says again, and then, a note of hesitation in his voice, “Phillip?”

It’s the first time he’s ever used Phillip’s Christian name rather than his surname, and the note of uncertainty and worry it carries destroys what’s left of Phillip’s composure. He can’t help himself any longer.

So he surges forward, halfway out of his chair, to seize Colin’s face in his hands and kiss him, with all the urgency he’s dreamt of, with all of the passion he’s expended far too much effort to keep hidden, every ounce of pent-up desire that suddenly can’t be contained any longer.

And it’s _exquisite_ —it’s the only thing he’s truly wanted ever since he first laid eyes on Colin Bridgerton in his doorway, as casual and cheerful as if he owned the place, as if he and Phillip had been friends for years rather than perfect strangers. He had wanted—as he’s doing now—to touch him, to trace his fingers across Colin’s perfect cheekbones, to feel the soft brush of his hair, to cover the warmth of his mouth with his own, to draw his lower lip in, nipping at it with his teeth, to deepen the kiss with desperation and wanting and—

—and it ends far too soon, because Colin is stumbling back and away, his chair crashing to the ground in his haste. Phillip’s head snaps up, his eyes opening, to see Colin staggering a few steps away, eyes huge, shock written on every line of his face.

Phillip should be mortified. He should be tripping over himself to apologize, to smooth things over, but the abrupt end of the kiss has made him want it all the more, and it’s all he can do to stay seated, staring back at Colin, rather than crossing the room to kiss him again, needing the contact beneath his hands and his mouth.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s as if his rational mind has vanished, leaving in its place a creature fueled only by desire and hedonism, unable to think of anything but the sensation of Colin, the feel and taste of him. He can feel his pulse leaping in his throat, the hammering of his heart, and the space between them seems unbearable.

But he is still a gentleman, still in possession of the barest trace of sensibility and lucid thought, and so he manages, barely, to croak out, “Sorry… I… s—so sorry—”

And in the greatest show of willpower of his life, he gets to his feet—not to lunge after Colin, but to run to his room.

Phillip isn’t sure which mortification is greater: having forcibly kissed his houseguest (a man who, as far as he can tell, is exclusively interested in women) under the influence of some bizarre surge of uncontrollable lust, or standing alone in his washroom, his trousers a hasty puddle at his feet, his hand wrapped around himself, unable to bring himself to completion. 

He doesn’t understand. Even with half of his clothing shed and cold water splashed on his face, neck, and chest, he still feels far too hot, as if all of the blood in his body is far too close to the surface; his pulse is hammering in his ears, and his legs feel too weak to hold himself up. And his mind keeps playing images of Colin—Colin’s eyes, Colin’s mouth, Colin’s perfect body (or, at least what he imagines of it; it isn’t as if he’s ever seen him even a little unclothed)—and he’s so hard it’s practically painful, and he keeps stroking himself, harder and harder and—and there’s nothing. He doesn’t even feel a little closer to relief.

He’s starting to think he might seriously be ill. Maybe that plant he inhaled was poisonous—maybe he has a fever. A fever with some very, very strange side effects. 

He thinks he should probably lie down—perhaps send for some medicine, see if he feels better in the morning—but though touching himself isn’t helping, the thought of doing nothing at all, trying forcibly to ignore his raging erection and far-too-filthy thoughts, is nearly unbearable. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he doesn’t know what could possibly help.

He is fairly certain, as he attempts to touch himself again—squeezing, stroking, pulling, growing harder and harder but unable to come—that this is the worst day of his life.

Then there’s a knock at the door, and before he can react past the roaring in his ears, Colin enters, and Phillip is _completely_ certain of it.

“Oh dear,” Colin murmurs, hastily closing the door behind him. “This is even worse than I thought.”

“Colin,” Phillip gasps, appalled, hastily turning away (trying to ignore that just the sight of Colin and the sound of his voice is, somehow, getting him even harder). He’s too out of his mind to worry about sounding unforgivably intimate by using Colin’s given name. “What in God’s name are you—”

“Phillip,” Colin says, and his tone is suddenly so soft, so understanding, that Phillip can’t stop himself from turning around. Colin looks a little startled, but his expression is still sympathetic, much more understanding than Phillip deserves.

“Something is seriously wrong,” he says, still in that heartbreakingly gentle voice. “Isn’t it?”

Phillip nods, miserably. He’s barely holding himself together, and he wonders how he’s come to this: standing in front of his houseguest with whom he’s half in love, his trousers around his ankles, and Colin not running away in horror. He can’t quite fathom how this has happened.

“It’s all right,” Colin says, and the words are so foreign to the entire current moment that Phillip can barely process them. “This isn’t—these appear to be extraordinary circumstances. I’ve never heard of any sort of illness or affliction that could cause such symptoms, but… surely that doesn’t mean that none exists.” He looks conspiratorially back and forth before leaning in to murmur, “You must never tell my family I’ve admitted this—but I don’t actually know everything.”

Phillip laughs, helpless. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, what’s wrong with him—it feels surreal that he’s standing here, half dressed, and laughing at a quip from Colin, and at the same time feeling so overwhelmed with emotion he can hardly breathe. Because of course it’s just like Colin to make a joke, to smooth things over, even on the most thoroughly bizarre day of Phillip’s life. Of course Colin would take an event that would have disgusted any other man beyond repair and use it to make Phillip fall just a little more in love.

Colin smiles, too, before growing more serious. “Phillip,” he says, and Phillip can barely repress a shudder at how it feels to hear him say it. “Would I be correct in assuming that your—ah—that your actions were due—some sort of impulse beyond your control? Whatever it is that has you looking so unwell?”

Trust him to get right to the heart of the matter, all delicate references to the kiss aside. Phillip nods, so grateful for the unexpected understanding that he can hardly breathe, let alone speak.

Colin watches him for a moment, thoughtful, before adding, “And would I be correct in assuming that said actions were due less to my presence and more to—whatever illness that’s stricken you? That is, that you would have done the same if presented with another person in the vicinity?”

“Maybe not _anyone_ else,” Phillip mutters, unable to help it. He’s not sure if it’s true; he’s not sure if, in the heat of the moment, anyone but Colin would have elicited that same reaction in him. But he can’t say for certain that it wouldn’t have happened, either.

Colin studies him again, and Phillip isn’t sure how transparent he’s being—but when he speaks again, it’s with another insight he’s managed to draw from their interactions. “One more assumption—that you feel about other men the way that most men feel about women?”

Phillip nods. It seems absurd, that he should feel any embarrassment over something so minor, under the circumstances, but it feels like the final nail in the coffin, the confirmation of Phillip’s feelings. It seems a simple enough equation to figure out: he’s attracted to men, and he kissed Colin, and he’s certain that a hundred other small details from Colin’s stay at Romney Hall are slotting into place, making it clear of something he had hoped desperately never to reveal. 

Colin smiles, and it looks a little awkward but entirely genuine. “You aren’t the first such man I’ve met, you know. It isn’t—discussed, openly, in society, but it happens. I would never judge you for that—especially considering my sister. It would be the height of hypocrisy.”

The last thing on Phillip’s mind right now is Colin’s sister (is anyone but Colin), but he remembers, as if through a fog, that she and her best friend are—well— “I thought it might be different,” he says, quiet, lame. “With—with men. Because—”

“Because you might be attracted to me?” Colin pulls off the words, which might have seemed arrogant from another man, with enough style and self-deprecation and confident charm to make them seem earnest. “Don’t feel too badly about that. Many are, or so I’m told.”

“Colin,” Phillip says, helpless. Their conversation, surprisingly normal as it was, had done a great deal to distract him from his predicament, but it’s coming back to him all in a rush, the overwhelming desire to be close to Colin, to touch him, to feel his hands and his mouth—and he can’t let this happen, especially not when Colin is being so kind, so understanding, far past what Phillip deserves. “I can’t—”

And Colin takes a step closer, taking Phillip’s hand in his own, his grip both gentle and firm—the hand that’s holding up his trousers, and without his hold, they slide down, revealing—

“Colin,” Phillip exclaims again, more breathlessly, trying to move away—to step back or turn away from Colin—but he keeps his fingers over Phillip’s, stilling him, and Phillip raises his face to see Colin’s, a little nervous but level, unmoving.

“You’re my friend,” he says, soft and steady. “It seems as if I might be your only option of... getting better.”

Phillip isn’t hearing this. He _isn’t._

“You can’t,” he manages to stutter out, shaky and nowhere near convinced. Because his mind is rotating a series of incredibly compelling images, and he feels as if he’s a hairsbreadth from release, so close he almost tries to touch himself again. 

Colin’s eyebrows arch. “You are my friend,” he says, quiet and intractable. “And you are in pain. If you think I’m going to stand idly by rather than do whatever I can to help—”

“This is a little outside the bounds of normal friendship,” Phillip snaps, managing to sound a little wry through his desperation. His entire being is focused on the sensation of Colin’s fingers, curled gently and intractably around his. The touch is more intimate than he ever thought he would get, and not nearly enough for what he needs, and the conflict is driving him mad.

“You don’t know how good a friend I am,” Colin replies, and is it Phillip’s imagination that his voice seems to have dropped a little lower? Gone more intent? 

And then he reaches down to wrap his hand around Phillip, and Phillip stops thinking anything altogether.

He gasps, his hips arching forward, his body going limp with an almost unbearable release of tension. Colin’s grip is firm and sure as he slides up and down, not nearly as urgent of a motion as Phillip would like but _good,_ so good, exactly what he needs—not enough but somehow everything he wants, sending pleasure rushing through his veins, blood heating to near-boiling. He hears, dimly, a quiet, unbroken chain of whimpers and realizes they’re emerging from his mouth, both from the incredible sensation of Colin’s hand on him and from the effort it requires him to stay standing upright.

And then he hears Colin’s voice, low and rough, in his ear—so close, close enough that Phillip can feel the heat of his body—“hold on to me,” he says, and Phillip’s hands are finding their way to Colin’s shoulders and holding on, hard, as if Colin is the only thing in the world that can keep him centered—and his eyes flutter closed as he shudders and arches into Colin’s hand, the strangled, desperate sounds he’s making growing louder and louder, and he feels himself listing against Colin, into the solid warmth of his body and the firm, quickening strokes of his hand, and nothing, nothing has ever felt better, every cell of him is screaming out for more, to bring himself closer and closer— 

—and then there’s nothing but brilliant, blank whiteness in his mind, all thought going numb, as he spills himself into Colin’s hand, the release so profound it feels like dying, and he slumps against Colin, barely registering that Colin’s free arm is moving around him, holding him loosely around the waist, keeping him anchored upright against his body.

It takes him a moment to come back to himself, but when he does he goes stiff with shame, unable to believe it—how could this have just happened? How could he have lost control so thoroughly? How could Colin—

He jerks away instinctively, and Colin allows it, slackening his grip but keeping a hand on Phillip’s hip. Phillip can barely bring himself to raise his eyes to meet Colin’s, but he finds no judgment on his face, no discomfort. Just genuine concern, and a band of heightened color across his cheeks and nose that Phillip finds absurdly endearing.

His voice catches in his throat. His face feels hot. He wants to thank Colin, though it seems inadequate in the extreme—he wants to apologize, though he knows, from the foreign sensation of the low hum still coursing through his blood, that it isn’t entirely his fault, that Colin had known and had still made the choice. He wants to say so many things, and the weight of the one thing he can’t say seems to choke out all of the others. 

After a moment, Colin gives a crooked little half-smile and steps back, dropping his hand. Phillip feels it loss all out of proportion to the intensity of the contact, like something’s been taken from him—he wants Colin to touch him again, and to touch him _more,_ like he just was, but even more so. “All right?” Colin asks, his voice soft in ways that makes Phillip’s blood leap.

Phillip nods, even though he’s not sure if it’s true. He’s starting to feel overheated again, what he assumed was just a hot blush of shame traveling across his entire body, what he assumed was a residual effect of the strange, overwhelming sensation buzzing through his body again. The distance between him and Colin is beginning to seem endless, insurmountable. He wants him closer. He wants Colin’s hands on him again. He wants—

He realizes, all of a sudden, that given that his trousers are still around his ankles, and everything he wants is beginning to become obvious.

Perhaps sensing Phillip’s new tension, Colin’s eyes drift briefly, quickly downward—and then they widen, lingering in shock (embarrassment along with fresh desire burns swiftly through Phillip). “Dear lord,” he says faintly. 

Phillip cannot possibly have done enough wrong in his life to merit torture of this sort. He knows he’s made more than his fair share of mistakes, but surely any semblance of a kind and loving higher power can’t intend to be putting him through this. “I don’t understand,” he says helplessly. “I don’t—I mean—this isn’t… _usual.”_

“Very reassuring to my ego,” Colin says, but even his usual wry tone seems less cavalier than usual. “Phillip, is—is it the same as before?”

Phillip nods miserably. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t—you should leave. I can’t ask you to—”

“To what?” And, bewilderingly, wonderfully, awfully, Colin is stepping closer again, and it’s all Phillip can do not to reach for him again. The earlier kiss feels like a ghost upon his lips, the memory of Colin’s touch seared on him like a brand, feeling like a necessity his body is craving like water or air or food—

Yes, it’s the same as before. 

“I think it might need… more,” he manages to say, miraculously without combusting with either shame or lust. “More—contact. But I’m not going to—I’ll—it’ll be all right.” 

Colin raises both eyebrows, silent but eloquent in his clear disbelief. Phillip’s shoulders slump. It had been a very, _very_ poor lie.

“Phillip,” he says. “I am still your friend.”

Phillip is beginning to rethink his lack of combustion as a miracle; it would, at the moment, feel like mercy.

“I am still not going to let you be in pain if there’s anything I can do to prevent it,” he says, that stubborn set back in his chin, that ridiculous moral fiber plain in his posture and his voice and his gorgeous, determined gaze.

“Colin,” Phillip blurts out desperately, “I want your mouth on me.” 

Colin’s eyes widen again. Phillip prays more fervently than he ever has before that he will just _leave,_ end the uncertainty and the longing and the sensations that somehow manage to be both too much and not enough. 

But instead he tips his head to the side, just a little, and says, “You know, I _did_ attend Oxford.”

Phillip blinks at him, bewildered. 

“Dozens of boys in close quarters,” he continues, his light tone belied by the faint flush touching his face again. “For months and months. Do you think the concept is so unfamiliar to me?”

Phillip’s brain is completely, abjectly refusing to process that thought (even as he remembers his own days at school, that such things were far from unheard of). But Colin keeps talking. “I’ve never touched another man intimately since, of course. Well—until now.” And a brief, charming grin that threatens to make Phillip’s knees give way entirely. “But it’s not likely to be a skill I’ve forgotten entirely.”

“Colin,” Phillip says, and he wants his voice to be more of a reprimand than a plea, but he doesn’t think he’s been entirely successful.

“I enjoyed it,” he says, his voice very soft. “I’ve enjoyed being with women in the years since, of course—a great deal—but I hadn’t remembered how much I had enjoyed that, too. Until I touched you now.”

 _“Colin,”_ Phillip says again, and he hates how his voice sounds, breathless and desperate and already ruined. But he watches Colin’s expression focus and intensify in response to it, and—

And he’s stepping closer, his fingers curling gently under Phillip’s chin. They’re almost of a height, but Phillip lets him do it, tilt his head and shift closer, until he can feel the ghost of Colin’s breath upon his lips, and—

And then Colin is kissing him, surprisingly soft and gentle, and Phillip melts into it, letting out a moan from that contact alone, his body slumping forward, seeking the stability of Colin’s form—Colin’s other hand moving to his hip, his fingers shifting to trace the shape of Phillip’s cheekbone before curling around the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

Phillip goes eagerly, pressing both hands to Colin’s chest, arching his body closer, urging the kiss deeper—the warmth of Colin’s mouth driving him past the bounds of sanity, his world narrowing to the press of Colin’s body and the heat of the kiss. The grip of Colin’s hand at the back of Phillip’s neck is firm and steady, and though he can barely focus, he recognizes dimly that Colin is remarkably skilled at this, so much so that even if Phillip weren’t so desperate for this, he would still likely have been breathless when Colin finally pulls back.

As is, he can barely even manage a choked sound of questioning, as close together as they are; he can see every detail of Colin’s eyes, the surprisingly long lashes, the brilliant color, the warmth. Colin smiles, and it looks softer than usual, though maybe that’s just the closeness.

“I refuse,” he says, gently rubbing the back of Phillip’s neck with his thumb (Phillip wants to arch into the touch like a cat), “to treat this as a bloodless transaction. I’m going to _woo_ you, Sir Phillip.”

The words send a delicious thrill of heat down Phillip’s spine, as does the wicked tilt of Colin’s smile. And then he leans in to touch his mouth to the corner of Phillip’s (even that small contact is enough to set him aflame all over again), then slowly drags it down across his jaw, down to his neck. Phillip moans, tilting his head back, hands moving to grip Colin’s shoulders, because he’s suddenly having trouble standing upright.

Colin’s fingers move to undo the first few buttons of Phillip’s shirt, even as his tongue is trailing down the line of Phillip’s pulse—amazing, he thinks dimly, how he can focus on both at once, when Phillip can barely even manage to absorb the sensation while remaining standing. He closes his eyes, savoring each brush of Colin’s fingers, the movement of his mouth and tongue as he sucks a mark onto Phillip’s shoulder, kisses the hollow of his throat, traces his tongue across his collarbone—

“Colin,” Phillip gasps out on a half-laugh, the words shaky, the blood afire in his veins. “I—I appreciate this, but—but maybe not—I’m going to go mad if you don’t—”

He feels the soft rumble of Colin’s laugh against his chest, and he shifts back just enough to grin at Phillip, so blindingly handsome even with his hair slightly mussed and his face still flushed. “You are going to be _fantastic_ for my self-esteem,” he murmurs, and then he drops to his knees.

The sight is almost enough to make Phillip lose control right then and there, but it’s nothing compared to how it feels when Colin sets his hands on Phillip’s thighs and takes him into his mouth.

Phillip moans, long and loud, his hands tangling into Colin’s hair, his hips bucking forward helplessly. Colin makes a valiant effort, but after a moment he lets out a little sound in his throat and pulls back, enough to catch his breath.

“Sorry,” Phillip gasps, pleasure and amusement and embarrassment all caught up in him at once, the word emerging in a breathless stutter—but Colin, being the absurdly perfect man he is, is actually laughing a little. “No harm done,” he says, shooting Phillip another dazzling smile. “I’m just out of practice. I’ll take it slow.”

“I might die if you do,” Phillip mutters, and he’s rewarded by a laugh as Colin leans in again, this time slowly easing Phillip into his mouth, little by little, taking less of him in this time—shifting his hands up to Phillip’s hips to control his motions, slowly rocking him back and forth against Colin’s mouth.

Phillip moans again, letting his hands find their way to Colin’s head again, trying to resist the urge to thrust against Colin, letting Colin pivot his hips, taking him in deeper and deeper—shuddering as Colin’s tongue slides along his length, biting back as a curse as his teeth scrape him lightly (Colin offers a muffled apology, but nothing can detract from Phillip’s pleasure at the moment)—Colin’s fingers are digging harder into Phillip’s hips now, and Phillip’s fingers are tangling tighter in Colin’s hair as heat floods every part of his body, need building in him harder and fiercer and deeper—

He comes with a strangled shout, arching forward instinctively, holding Colin to him until he’s spent, breathlessly slumping forward, the release so thorough and blinding he can’t think of anything for a good few minutes.

When he comes back to himself, it’s to the sight of Colin spitting at the washbasin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Phillip thinks he should feel apologetic, but actual, reasonable feelings still seem out of his reach. He still manages a weak, slightly shaky “sorry,” and hears Colin’s soft laugh as he straightens and comes back to Phillip, steadying him with a hand at his hip.

“It’s all right. I knew what I was getting into.” Phillip feels the gentle curl of fingers under his chin, tipping his head up to meet Colin’s gaze, soft and affectionate and concerned. The expression, like something out of Phillip’s darkest, most unbearable dreams, makes him want to melt into the floor.

“Are you… feeling better?” he asks, his tone delicate. Phillip wants to laugh, but he’s still feeling so boneless, and Colin’s fingers are so warm, it’s hard not to just arch into the touch, to drape himself over Colin, to rely on his solidity and goodness and strength to reshape him into a better person, to feel as much of him as possible—

The problem, he thinks wryly, with having had these swiftly growing, poorly suppressed feelings for Colin for so long is that he genuinely doesn’t know if something is still wrong with him, or if these are just his own thoughts clouding his mind.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, hesitant. “I—the last time—it took a moment to build again. So we’ll have to find out.” He adds quickly, though, “But this time—if it isn’t better—you can’t—”

Colin silences him with a light press of his thumb to Phillip’s lips; he obediently goes quiet right away. “I’m committed now,” he says, a playful lilt to his tone. “Don’t try to scare me away.”

Phillip wonders vaguely if he should try to be even more explicit—if Colin won’t think twice about this course of action and hate Phillip in the morning for forcing his hand, encouraging these actions that he has no intention of repeating. But he wonders, too, if he ought to accept that even if that happens, maybe it’s still all right to let him make his own decisions—and to embrace the intimacy that he might never have again with the man he loves.

And sure enough, after a moment, he begins to feel Colin’s touch on his mouth (he’s let his thumb linger, his expression still far too tender for Phillip’s heart to bear) like a brand, the space between their bodies charged with sparks of heat, every place he isn’t touching Colin a searing emptiness—and his mouth falls open on a shaky, urgent inhale, and he looks at Colin apologetically.

Color rises to Colin’s face again. “Given,” he says, and his voice sounds a little choked, “that we appear to have—ah—exhausted most of our other options, I… I would assume that—”

“Colin,” Phillip says, and he has enough presence of mind to feel a cringe of shame at how breathless he sounds, even when trying to talk Colin out of this, “I did say—I would never expect you to—I can—”

But this time Colin lays the whole of his hand flat against Phillip’s mouth, blocking all further speech, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes that sets Phillip’s blood on fire. “I find,” he says, very slowly, the flush still lingering on his cheeks, “that the thought of you… addressing this problem on your own—or with anyone other than me—unbearable.” 

Phillip’s eyes go wide. The words have Colin’s usual subtle, humorous lilt, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to them, the barest hint of a possessiveness that makes Phillip feel a stirring below his (metaphorical) belt again. He wonders when this happened—if it’s possible this afternoon has somehow shifted Colin’s perception, or if—he can barely bring himself to wonder it—somehow, all along, Colin’s feelings have been mirroring his own, even a little.

Colin’s hand moves from covering Phillip’s mouth to cupping his cheek, his eyes warm and intent. Phillip can’t help leaning into the touch, even as he’s asking, voice soft, “Are you certain?” 

In response, Colin lowers his mouth to Phillip’s again.

In Phillip’s current state, even the slightest contact between himself and Colin would send his blood leaping; a kiss like this, warm and thorough and perhaps the slightest bit possessive, inflames him. He can’t resist a breathless gasp against Colin’s mouth, shifting forward to grasp handfuls of Colin’s shirt, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies flush together. Colin responds in turn, hand moving to the back of Phillip’s neck, angling his head to deepen the kiss, other arm winding about his waist to hold Phillip to him, firm and unyielding.

Phillip wants to melt into him, to surrender fully to the strength and kindness and goodness of the man he loves. He wants to cling to Colin and know that Colin will never let him go. He wants—he wants—

He pulls away to breathe weakly and urgently against Colin’s mouth, “Colin, _please,_ I can’t—”

Colin’s looking a little flushed, but his gaze is steady as he rubs the back of Phillip’s neck; he arches into the touch, a silent plea. “Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse. “I’m going to make this good, Phillip.” 

“It’s already good,” Phillip groans, earnest. “I want it to be _fast.”_

Colin laughs, sliding his other hand up to cup Phillip’s face. Even as attuned as he is right now to every movement from Colin, every nuance of his expression, Phillip can’t quite read the look on his face. “As I said,” he says, a little shaky, “you’re going to be excellent for my ego.”

Their bodies are still pressed together, and Phillip squirms a little closer, needing even the subtlest friction, the slightest bit of extra contact. The fire is back in his blood, the urge to be as close to Colin as possible, the need for as much of his touch as he can get. “Please,” he says, far beyond the capacity for shame. “I need you.”

Colin shudders a little, then gives him a little half-smile that looks a little unsteady. “We’ll have to take our time next time,” he says, and before Phillip can quite process that, he releases him and gives him a little nudge. “Let’s take this to the bedroom, then.”

Phillip is glad for aforementioned lack of shame, because otherwise the swiftness with which he moves to obey would be rather embarrassing.

He leaves his trousers behind the moment the bedroom door closes behind them, and when he reaches the bed, he moves to divest himself of the rest of his clothing (still thinking rationally enough, at least, to leave his shirt unbuttoned, but on; no need to have that conversation just yet) as quickly as he can while his fingers are shaking with urgency. It feels painful to be separated from Colin for even that long, but when he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and looks up, he sees Colin seated at the edge of the bed, removing his own shirt at a more normal speed, and his mouth goes dry with each new inch of skin revealed.

“Colin,” he says, unable to stop himself from edging closer. “I want to—can I—” He can’t quite manage to form the words, but he reaches out to draw his fingers across Colin’s shoulder and collarbone. 

Colin starts at the touch, but leans in almost instinctively, clearly not objecting. “It’s somewhat distracting,” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse, “which may make it counterintuitive. But—” And then he lets out a sound of surprise as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and Phillip takes the opportunity to run both hands urgently down his chest, then tug the shirt all the way off.

He has to be honest, the view is even better than he thought it would be. It’s been years since he’s been this close to another man, but he doesn’t think it’s his own mind, clouded with desire and emotion, that’s making him think that Colin is exceptional. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes, barely able to speak for the urge to touch every inch of him that he can reach. He can hardly decide whether it’s more important to do so or to continue removing the rest of Colin’s clothing.

He doesn’t realize how hard he’s breathing or how much his hands are shaking until Colin’s fingers close over them, gentle but firm. He looks up to meet Colin’s eyes, bright and intent; his color is high and his breath is coming more quickly, too. “Breathe,” he says, soft and gentle. “I’m here. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words still Phillip as much as the tone—I’m with you—and he can actually feel his heart slow, just a little. He can still hardly stand how much he wants Colin, lust blazing through every inch of his body, but it’s transmuting into something softer, sweeter, molasses rather than fire. Instead of Colin fulfilling his need, it’s becoming something that they’re sharing—a moment for both of them.

“Lie back,” Colin murmurs, and Phillip can’t do anything but obey. He’s still trembling from head to toe, shaking with desire he can hardly contain, but he can feel himself moving with less of that desperate urgency. He trusts that Colin is here, that Colin is going to come to him the moment he divests himself of his trousers—and that’s exactly what happens, Colin reaching the bed, shifting to cover Phillip’s body with his own, Phillip moving upward to meet him halfway in a long, thorough kiss, Phillip’s hands moving restlessly across Colin’s chest and shoulders and back, Colin’s hand bracing himself on the bed next to them, other hand cupping Phillip’s cheek, tangling in his hair, urging him closer, opening his mouth to take the kiss deeper and deeper.

“Colin,” Phillip gasps when they pull apart, his name the only word he wants on his lips anymore—then lets out another, louder sound as Colin’s mouth finds his jaw, then his neck, his shoulder, his chest—his hand skimming down Phillip’s side to wrap around him again, and Phillip moans, long and loud and shameless, arching up against Colin’s hand. It feels just as good as before, better than anything else has ever felt, but—now—here—it isn’t enough. Phillip wants, needs so much more.

He’s desperate for all that Colin can give him, but he doesn’t want to let this pass him by before he’s had a chance to have his time with Colin, too. So he grips Colin’s shoulders and pushes enough to shift him to the side, so that he can bend his own head, acquainting his own lips and tongue and teeth with the curve of Colin’s jaw, the length of his neck, the broad expanse of his chest—his own hand with the feel of Colin, hot and hard, and if he had had any doubt in his mind that Colin is enjoying this, too—that Colin is, as he’s said, here with him—they’re gone in that moment.

Colin gasps, arching forward in to Phillip’s hand, and gives a breathless laugh, setting his hands at Phillip’s chest to ease him back. “Next time,” he says, shooting him a dazed grin. “Next time I’ll welcome whatever you want to give me—but if you want this to last more than the next minute, you’ll have to—”

And Phillip moves back willingly, the words _next time_ lingering in his ears, and he barely manages to say, “The drawer—the top drawer by the bed—”

Colin shifts away, understanding, and Phillip can’t help squirming a little on the bed, impatient. He can’t bear every minute that Colin isn’t touching him, every inch of space separating them—all he wants to do is touch Colin, feel the warmth of his skin, absorb the sensation of his mouth, imprint every inch of Colin’s body against his—

“Slow down,” he hears Colin murmur, low and hoarse, and Phillip realizes he’s started touching himself without noticing, attempting to provide a bit of relief to the need wracking his body. He opens his eyes to see Colin holding the small bottle of oil Phillip’s had for years (just in case), sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him in what looks like fascination. 

“Don’t ruin my fun,” Colin says, breathless, and reaches to replace Phillip’s hand with his own.

Phillip practically comes off the bed with the touch, so good and yet _not enough,_ so far from what he needs that he can’t bear it. “Colin,” he gasps, fisting his hands into the sheets, gripping tightly. “Please—I need—I can’t wait—”

Colin nods, and shifts back onto the bed to set his hands at Phillip’s thighs, spreading them wide in a single, strong motion. Phillip feels the impatient, desperate trembling throughout his entire body; he can’t take his eyes off of Colin as he opens the bottle, coating a finger in the oil, then leaning in to cord his fingers through Phillip’s hair, tilting his head up—kissing him, slow and deep, so thorough Phillip can’t help but respond, squirming to come closer as Colin’s other hand shifts downward and—

Phillip hisses out a strangled gasp at the feeling of Colin’s finger, discomfort and pleasure surging through him simultaneously. To his dismay, Colin pulls back, concern creasing his features. “I’m sorry,” he says, not moving his hand, squeezing the back of Phillip’s neck in reassurance. “Did I hurt you?” 

Phillip shakes his head automatically; it’s true, as far as that goes. It isn’t as if he hadn’t known what was coming, but— “It’s… been a long time,” he manages, the honesty ripped from him along with all of his defenses. “I’ll—I’ll just need a moment. But—don’t stop, don’t—”

Colin nods, his thumb tracing up and down the line of Phillip’s jaw, the caress a comfort. He watches, careful, as Phillip’s tremors move fully from discomfort to pleasure, before he carefully adds another finger—this time moving his free hand to knead at the tense muscles of Phillip’s shoulder, finding a spot that makes Phillip moan, arching his back to accept Colin’s fingers deeper—and when he moves them just a little, Phillip nearly comes off the bed again.

Colin pauses for a moment, looking pleasantly surprised. “Well,” he says, voice low, a sly smile curving his features. “That’s interesting.”

Even wound as tightly as he is, urgency rushing through his veins, pleasure sending off sparks at the corner of his vision, Phillip can’t help but give a brief, hoarse laugh. “You didn’t know?” he asks, his voice breaking as he strains forward on Colin’s fingers. “Here—curl them in just a little more—move them back towards—oh, my god,” he exclaims, his grip on the bedsheets tightening, his eyes closing, his voice trailing off into a low moan, tremors shaking through him again. It’s all suddenly become much more bearable, and all at once he doesn’t think he can wait another minute.

“Colin,” he gasps, eyes flying open to see him watching Phillip with close fascination, gaze intent, his color high. “I can’t—I can’t wait—” 

Even past his daze, Colin looks a little concerned as he crooks his fingers just a little again—Phillip moans, long and loud and shameless—and he murmurs, hoarse, “Are you sure? I don’t know if I—Phillip, I’ve never—”

“I need you,” Phillip insists, his fingers tightening in the bedsheets, feeling the heat rising to every inch of his skin, a fine sheen of sweat building along his temples. “I need this. _Please_ —do it now.” 

Colin shudders, and he still looks nervous, but he nods, and he removes his fingers. Phillip can’t help but feel bereft, even as he knows it’ll be better soon—he can’t stop squirming, impatient, desperate, his eyes fixed on Colin as he touches himself, as he moves closer, spreading Phillip’s legs, lifting them—

—and the hiss that emerges from Phillip as Colin eases into him is as much pain as it is pleasure, but more than anything, it’s relief. _Finally,_ his entire body seemed to sing in relief, caught in a frozen upward arc, motionless except for fine tremors running through him. _Finally._

“Phillip,” Colin gasps, his entire body just as still as Phillip’s, shaking just as minutely. His eyes are closed tightly, but they burst open to lock onto Phillip’s—his expression hot and intense, as urgent as Phillip’s own, and Phillip can read the desperation in his gaze, because he feels the same way—the need to touch and feel as much as possible, and the desperate indecision as to where to begin, too overwhelmed by desire to think clearly.

“Nothing,” Colin manages, his words sounding strangled as he eases in just a little further, prompting another rush of tension and another soft choked sound from Phillip, “nothing—has ever felt—”

“Don’t stop,” Phillip moans, his hands scrambling upward to clutch at Colin’s forearms, needing the contact, the solid sensation of Colin under his hands. He’s overwhelmed beyond reason, beyond bearing—all he can focus on is the sensation shooting through him, the relief, the desire to continue, to sink into the pleasure as thoroughly as he can. 

Colin lets out a sound in reply that’s not coherent in the least, and he eases Phillip upward so he can move his hands to Phillip’s shoulders, holding on tightly, and he begins to move.

Each slide of Colin into him, their hips pressing together, his grip tightening on Phillip’s shoulders, sends shudders of sensation through Phillip, sparks across every inch of his skin—sets his blood aflame, spurring pleasure so intense he can hardly think. He’s consumed by the desire to get closer, to feel more and more, to take Colin as far into himself as he can, to eliminate every inch of space between them. 

“More,” he manages to rasp out, his voice already sounding ruined, his hands sliding up Colin’s arms, down his back, clutching at his hips to urge him closer. _“More.”_

Colin shudders, so hard Phillip feels every inch of it against his own body, and drags Phillip’s head up for a hard kiss, mouths sliding messily together, inflaming Phillip further, beyond reason. His fingers dig into Colin’s hips, urging him to move harder, faster—and Colin obliges, thrusting deeper and deeper, building a speed and rhythm that steadily becomes unbearable, and all Phillip can do is _feel,_ becoming a single nerve dedicated to absorbing all the pleasure he can, moving his mouth restlessly, impatiently against Colin’s.

Meanwhile, Colin is touching him—hands shifting across Phillip’s shoulders, up his arms, down his chest, finally wrapping a hand around his length—Phillip nearly comes off the bed again, moaning into Colin’s mouth, his feelings of pleasure condensing and sharpening, the fire in his veins raging higher and higher—

—and finally Phillip can’t bear it any longer and he feels himself shattering completely, letting out a hoarse cry against Colin’s mouth, his back arching into a perfect curve as he presses against Colin as hard as he can, feeling wave after wave of pleasure cascading through his entire body, head to toes—never has he felt anything so good in his life—

And following it is a sense of relief so profound it feels like all of his bones have been removed, like every miniscule amount of tension he’s been carrying throughout his life has finally vanished from him, like every single thing in his life no longer matters, like none of his problems exist anymore. It’s pure, blinding relaxation, and for a moment it feels so intense that he knows nothing at all.

Then, slowly, he comes to enough to notice that Colin, too, is seconds from release—and then it happens, on a choked gasp, his body pressing forward, spilling himself inside Phillip—and the look on his face, of pure, blank ecstasy, sends a rush through Phillip’s heart.

The two of them sink back to the bed, Colin slowly detaching from Phillip to fall down next to him, eyes closed, form limp. Phillip can’t help a half-smile, watching him—it increases his own sense of well-being, seeing Colin so satisfied. And then Colin shifts closer, wrapping an arm around Phillip’s waist and tucking his head into his shoulder, and Phillip closes his eyes and lets himself go.

He comes to some hours later, in the darkness of very early morning, and feels his entire body go rigid with mortification and horror. 

He doesn’t even have the cloak of slow foggy wakefulness to shield him; he comes instantly, fully awake, the memories of the prior night sharp and clear. The way heat and urgency had suffused him—the way he had begged Colin, urged him on with no shame at all—all of the ways in which they had touched, kissed, come together—

Phillip lets out a low, mortified groan and buries his face in the pillow. He’s only wearing his unbuttoned shirt, and he still feels both a low, strenuous burn from the activities undertaken and the soft, distant contentment that had, at long last, followed. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget it, or to separate out the shame from the pleasure. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be over how deeply, thoroughly humiliating it was—or the incredible closeness he had felt, more so than with any other person at any other time in his life, a connection almost spiritual in its intensity.

And now, surely, Colin will regret it. In the morning—before the morning, however early he manages to wake—surely he’ll want to leave and never speak of it again.

But even as the thought sinks in, completing his thorough embarrassment and horror at the way he’d behaved, he hears a shifting noise on the bed next to him—and there’s Colin, aligning their bodies together as he had when they first fell asleep—an arm around his waist, head resting on Phillip’s shoulder—and speaking in a sleepy murmur: “It’s not even close to being light outside yet. I certainly hope this isn’t a herald of things to come.” 

Phillip feels himself stiffen, more in shock than in discomfort; the feeling of Colin curled against him, the soft rush of his breath against Phillip’s cheek, feels so good he’s wondering if he’s still dreaming (though, of course, the misery unspooling in his gut seems real enough). “Things to come?” he echoes, uncomprehending. 

“You aren’t always awake so early, are you?” Colin asks, his voice still heavy with sleep. “I can’t imagine that would end at all well.” 

For a moment, Phillip’s mind is absolutely blank, unable to even process the words. What is he talking about? He doesn’t mean—he can’t mean—

He can’t bear it; he has to say something. “Colin,” he says, his voice a little shaky—and then he says it again, louder, as he feels Colin beginning to relax back into sleep behind him. “Are you—you’re implying that—that there will be other times when you will… wake up with me?”

There’s absolute silence behind him, a sudden stillness to Colin’s form. And then Colin shifts back and away from him—Phillip’s heart sinks—and then he feels Colin’s hand on his shoulder, turning him over until he’s on his back.

In the dark of the early morning, he can’t see Colin’s face, but he can see the outline of his body, leaning over him. “Should I be clearer?” he says, his voice very soft. “I thought I made my feelings known last night. Would you like me to say it outright?”

Phillip’s suddenly very aware of the blood rushing through his veins, the sharp pulse of his heart—neither as urgent as they’d been last night, but still anxious and heavy. He can’t contain his emotions, the rush of hope, the weight of despair, the heat of shame. So many things he’d thought had been deadened, until Colin came waltzing into his life, all casual banter and broad smiles and easy charm and unthinking kindness. 

God, Phillip loves him. So much that he can hardly contemplate the seductive thought of keeping him if it’s going to be taken away. “Yes,” he whispers, a tremor in his voice, and Colin lets out a soft, startled little huff of a laugh. 

“Phillip,” he says, his voice low and affectionate, and Phillip feels Colin’s hand on his shoulder, then sliding up to his cheek, curving around the line of his jaw; he can’t help but lean into the touch. “I want you. I care for you. I want to stay here, with you.” 

A slow, shuddering breath escapes Phillip; he’s so painfully full of hope it feels like a tangible thing, like Colin could feel it bursting out of his chest if he rested a hand over Phillip’s heart. “You do,” he repeats, the words almost most air than sound, a question in them even as they emerge sounding steady.

“I do,” Colin says, decisively, leaning in to punctuate the words with a swift but firm kiss. It’s a little off-center in the dark, reaching closer to the corner than the center of Phillip’s mouth, but it makes his point.

Phillip’s throat feels, for a moment, too tight to allow speech, hope and longing crowding him so thoroughly that words have no room to escape. He’s trying to force his sleep-addled mind to be realistic. Surely it’s no small thing for Colin to find himself here—unclothed, in bed with another man, dropping kisses to his mouth like punctuation marks—but surely, too, he hasn’t had the time to think through what it might mean, to make a life here with Phillip. To abandon society, to open himself to censure, to become a father of sorts to two small children—

“I can _hear_ you thinking,” Colin says, and he sounds both exasperated and fond. A small, reluctant smile quirks at Phillip’s lips.

“Colin,” he says, slow and reluctant. “I—I want you. I care for you. I want you here, with me. But—a decision like that—you can’t—”

“Phillip,” Colin interrupts him, the words soft but steely. “I will happily discuss the ramifications of this or any other decision with you for days on end, if you so choose. I’m perfectly aware that there are details upon details to be decided upon and talked through. But I’ve developed this terrible habit, you see—lifelong, I’m afraid—of sleeping when it’s dark outside. And I know I really ought to break it one of these days, but for now, if you’ll indulge me, I would truly like your company in returning to it.”

Phillip huffs out a quiet, incredulous laugh. He can practically see Colin’s smile, even in the darkness—can feel Colin’s eyes on his face, even knowing he can’t very well see its details.

And he lets himself imagine having this, every single day. And he lets himself believe that it might not be entirely out of his reach.

“Very well,” he murmurs, daring to press a quick kiss to Colin’s palm. “I’ve led you into enough indulgence—I suppose it’s only fair that you return the favor.”

Colin laughs in turn, dropping back to the bed, moving his arm back around Phillip’s waist, pulling him closer. “Good night, Sir Phillip,” he murmurs into Phillip’s hair, his voice already thick with imminent sleep.

And Phillip closes his eyes, feeling a smile linger on his face, and lets himself hope.


End file.
